I'd like to thank my beta, irishais, who has been a MAJOR help. Without her, this wouldn't have gotten this far! Much much praise to her for her editing skills and confidence boosting. Also, please read and review! Please, please, please! I cannot stress that enough.

Disclaimer: I, sadly, do not own any of the characters from the BBC's Sherlock. I wish I did. But I'm just not that lucky. LOL

Sherlock paced round the flat, muttering and kicking away the books and papers that lay in his path. As John looked up from his place in the armchair, he shook his head at his very odd, yet brilliant, flatmate. The doctor had always been somewhat amused by Sherlock's behaviours. The pacing, the experiments, and the frozen body parts stored beside the waffles in their freezer; these were all just little things that made the detective unusually interesting. John returned to writing in his blog, making notes about the case at hand. It was another 'locked door mystery' and this one had even the consulting detective perplexed. John saved his writings, snapped shut his laptop and rose from his seat, stretching and groaning slightly.

"I'm off to bed, Sherlock. Will there be anything left of the flat in the morning, or should I expect to wake in a pile of rubble?" His madman of a roommate simply grunted and waved a hand at him. "Right. Well, good night then," he said, and walked off to his room, wondering if the living room would be still be in one piece come morning.

"John! Let's go. I've got it!" Sherlock called from the kitchen. "You awake?" He paused for approximately half a second. "Fine, I'll go it alone then." As he reached to take his overcoat from the hook by the door, a very tired and disheveled John Watson appeared.

"What time is it?" John yawned and stooped to tie his shoes, ducking to the side as Sherlock flung the door wide open and raced down the steps, taking them two by two.

"Time to catch a killer, John. I can't believe I missed it! Oh, so clever… How clever you are…" Sherlock said as he rushed past Mrs. Hudson.

"Oh… Well, good. At least the pacing is over with," John said to himself as he ran down the steps and finally made his way out onto the street, catching up with Sherlock just as a cab pulled up in front of them.

"Scotland Yard," he told the cabbie and they were off. John watched his colleague, whose face was almost showing a hint of joy, but as quickly as it came, the expression was gone; Sherlock's face settled back into that uncaring expression John knew so well.

It was drizzling, and rather chilly as they rode through town to meet with Lestrade, a scenario typical of another day in the life of John Watson- wake up at some strange hour to the sound of Sherlock either blowing up the microwave or calling for him to come along.

He preferred when his friend blew up the microwave, since that was not nearly as important to him as sleeping. The nightmares had started but a week after his discharge, and although it had been months since he had returned from the war, the images still haunted him. John's nights were spent tossing and turning violently as images of his fellow soldiers flashed in his mind. So many of them, dead or dying, missing limbs, bleeding out too fast- he had tried so hard to save them, but no man can save everyone. Not even him. What he saw over there had changed him forever.

John stared blankly out the window, thinking about the nightmare he'd had just hours before, when the cab jerked to a halt. Blinking, he realized they had arrived at their destination and Sherlock was rushing towards the building, leaving him to pay the fare. John pulled his wallet out and paid the cabbie, then took up his cane and limped away from the cab and into the foyer of Scotland Yard. He had a feeling that this was going to be a long day; he could feel it in his bones, and it wasn't just the arthritis set on by his combat injuries. Catching a glimpse of Sherlock's coattails rounding the corner towards Lestrade's office, he tried to hurry a bit so not to miss out on whatever revelation the other man had this morning.

It was just such a troubling case. The door was bolted from the inside, windows locked up tightly as well, and no sign that anyone else was in the room. However, thanks to Sherlock's keen eye and deductive reasoning, they had determined that the woman had not killed herself. At first glance, it appeared she had overdosed on some kind of drug, perhaps sleeping pills. The empty prescription bottle on the table next to a half-empty glass of Dom Perignon added to the suspicion of suicide in everyone's minds. Except Sherlock's. He had noticed that the prescription had been filled a month and a half ago, calling for thirty pills, which meant that she would have run out two weeks ago, which in turn meant that the bottle had been empty for some time to begin with. The woman was a defense attorney, meaning she would have needed a pill each night, since most defense attorneys suffer from some form of sleeping disorder. But, if she hadn't overdosed herself, and was locked in from the inside, how did she die? John sat on the leather sofa, listening to Lestrade and Sherlock go over his new theory as to what happened.

"The whole room is sealed up like a vault, correct?" Sherlock's voice was mocking.

"Yes. What are you getting at here, Detective?" Lestrade glanced at the clock impatiently, waiting for an answer.

"What I'm getting at, Inspector, is this was most obvious, and your crack team of real law officers should have spotted it at the start! Look, here. This photo. See that on the floor, off to the left a bit?" Sherlock held the photo up, almost touching it to the Inspector's nose and pointing to a floor vent. "That is how the killer got in. The vent. He came up through from the flat below, obviously. Its brilliant!"

John and Lestrade shared a bewildered look before John spoke up. "Well, Holmes. That would make our killer, what? A skeleton? Think about this. No one could fit in that ventilation shaft. Its just not possible." John smirked, knowing he was about to get put in his place. He didn't mind though. It was an everyday thing when working with Sherlock, and he had almost begun to enjoy it.

"Ah, very good, John. But wrong again. You see, I never said the killer was a person, did I? No. Simply that the killer came in through the vent. Come on, John. I have something I need to do." And with that, Sherlock flicked the photo into the air, spun about on his heel, and was gone again. John quickly got to his feet, glancing at Lestrade, who had already grabbed his coat and was heading for the door. He wasn't about to let a man such as Sherlock go interrogating anyone by himself. Last time he'd allowed that, the suspect in question spent four months regaining the use of his right shoulder.

No, he thought, Won't make that mistake again. Already lost my marriage. Not about to lose my job too. Damn you, Sherlock.

–

Watson waited in the hallway, while Lestrade and Sherlock went over the crime scene again. He stooped down beside the floor vent, slipping on a pair of latex gloves. Curiously, touched the slats of the vent, then rubbed his fingertips together. Sniffing the somewhat oily residue on the glove, Sherlock's eyes widened and he stood suddenly, nearly knocking down Lestrade who was hovering about his shoulder. As the dark haired detective turned to face the Inspector, he held his gloved hand in front of Lestrade's face and waved it a bit.

"Have a sniff," he told Lestrade who was now leaning back to avoid contact with the strange substance just under his nose.

"You're mad." He replied, pushing Sherlock's hand away in disgust. "That is revolting, and if you think for one second I would smell something that I have not yet ident-"

"Formaldehyde. It's residue from formaldehyde. Why would I lie to you about that? Should something happen to you, Inspector, I will not be compensated for my time, and that would be a waste of effort and intelligence on my part." He reached out again, and this time Lestrade took a rather tentative whiff, as though he was beginning to trust the self-diagnosed sociopath. After what seemed ages, Sherlock backed away and removed the gloves. He began looking about the room again, silently going over all of the facts of the case. Without warning, Sherlock took off and dashed down the stairs, his associates failing to keep step. Once they reached the door of the lower flat, Lestrade shot a glance at Sherlock.

"Let's not have a repeat of the Kensington Square double, right?"

"You have my word." As he reached up to press the buzzer on the wall, an odd scent wafted out from under the front door. He crouched down and stuck his nose by the floor, dark curls falling over his eyes. It was only when he felt a change in the atmosphere of the hallway that Sherlock realized the door had been opened, and as he looked up he found that his possible suspect was staring down as him with a look of astonishment. His eyes darted about, taking in every bit of information that he could about this person. Pink bedroom slippers, caked with what appeared to be gravy, cigarette ashes and what looked to be a bit of vomit. Matching pink dressing gown, frayed at the bottom and stained with nail polish, green hair dye and red wine. From this he deduced that the woman, presumably the killer, was single, early twenties, enjoyed drinking, smoking and punk rock music. She was into the club scene, and hated cleaning. Not a very good cook, considering how many times it appeared she'd spilled gravy on her feet, and held a job that hardly paid, as her dressing gown was in a state of disrepair and hadn't been replaced.

Sherlock jumped to his feet, and briefly introduced himself before slipping past the woman, striding over to the vent on the wall. He looked up and turned sideways, making sure he was at the corresponding vent to the one in the flat above. Under the vent, there was a small scrape mark on the wall and dents to the carpet which seemed to have been made by a table. He sniffed the wall, and whipped around, motioning to Lestrade who was fending off the woman's attacks as he made his way across the lounge.

"Here we go. Got you now, haven't I?" Sherlock pointed to the wall just below the vent. As Lestrade leaned in, he could smell the formaldehyde again.

"Well. I believe you're right."

"I'm always right. That's beyond the point. You have your killer, and I did my part. If you don't mind, there's something else I must attend to." And with that, Sherlock left the Inspector in the flat. Lestrade watched him go, bewildered, yet thankful, that this had gone better than he'd hoped.

"At least everyone's conscious. Excuse me, miss. May I have a word with you?"

While Lestrade handcuffed the young woman, Watson limped down the stairs and out to the sidewalk.

"Where now, Sherlock?" he asked, pulling his jacket around him tightly. The wind had picked up and it was raining steadily. All he wanted now was to go back to 221B Baker Street and put on some tea.

"Home. I would love a cup of tea 'bout now, wouldn't you John?" Flagging down a cab, Sherlock patted his flatmate on the shoulder and stepped down off the curb.

"How do you- Never mind." John smiled and shook his head, knowing that no explanation would suit him. He climbed into the waiting cab, and was thankful for his friend's unusual ability to know just what he was thinking. Sometimes, he thought Sherlock knew what he wanted long before he knew it himself. The cab slowed in front of the flat and Sherlock leaned forward to pay the man. They slid out of the car, quietly making their way upstairs. As John went to the kitchen and put the kettle on, Sherlock sat down on the sofa and turned on the TV.

"Ah. Wallace and Gromit. Almost feel bad for that poor mutt."

"You what?" John squeaked, shocked by Sherlock's statement."

"Gromit. The clay dog. Almost feel bad for him."

"Feel?"

"Almost. If I were capable of feeling to begin with, I would surely feel bad for Gromit.

Always in some sticky mess. Went and got himself caught this time."

"Oh, right. Almost. Uh, which one is it?"

"The one with the Were-Rabbit. Here, come watch." Sherlock scooted over as John carried in their tea, making space for him to have a seat on the sofa. John sat quietly, glancing over at Sherlock and sipping at his tea. He was amazed by this man. It was so rare to see him enjoy anything other than a good murder case, that John had almost forgotten this little-known side of his companion. Almost. He thought. Almost feel... Almost forgot... Almost happy. They both sank into the cushions, Sherlock staring intently at the TV and John laughing at the antics of the silly animated man and his pet as he drifted off to sleep.